I drove to work. Really? I already forgot.

In the last two weeks, there hasn't been much to complain about. Normally, that is a shocking statement for me, but here's the deal - I was on vacation. To be more specific, I was at the beach, which overall is pretty sweet. One thing I feel strongly about - if you bitch within an earshot of the ocean, clearly you are an A-hole.

But like all bliss, this fuzzy feeling dwindled pretty quick. Actually, it came to a screeching halt today, Wednesday, the day I forgot I drove to work.

Here's what happens on a normal day. I drive my car to a park-and-ride spot about 5 miles from my house. Usually, my boyfriend is on my bumper, pulling in right behind me as I park, so we can ride together to our cubicles in central Phoenix. Here, each day, at this lovely park-and-ride, I leave my car, so I can take the bus - a plan B if you will. That way if my boyfriend gets stuck on a newspaper deadline, everything is cool. I have a way home. This scenario happens more than I'd like to think. Actually, that is exactly what set the events of this Wednesday into motion.

Usually it's all good. Well, that is until you have a brain fart and forget that didn't drive to work with your boyfriend on this day, that you didn't park your car at the usual park-and-ride spot, that you instead drove yourself to work just 8 hours before. Not cool. How much damage did I do to this brain in high school? No, really, how much?

Maybe it's early onset Alzheimer's I got going on or the daily Red Bull has seeped into my brain, I really don't know. Here's what I do know - I somehow completely forgot I drove to work, as I casually strolled along in 100 degrees to my trusty bus stop.

It wasn't until I de-bused and started to walk to my car, that I realized my mistake. And my first thought when I didn't see my car; "Yes! It's been stolen. Now I can get a new one! Whoohoo." It didn't take long for me to realize the reality of "You are such a moron. You drove to work today, dude. Your car is 25 miles from here."

So I had to call a cab. But here's something that's not the worst. My cab driver was a poet. Yes, an actual poet with published work that is pretty solid. I found this out on our 5-mile drive that cost me $10 (well, it was $8.80, but I had to tip a struggling writer who said the job allowed him to find new characters - indeed!)

Actually, my taxi driver, who's real name is Richard J. Withrow (yeah, he'll be famous someday with that name) is a very good poet. Check out his work here.

The day was bad, but then again, not all bad. If I didn't get stranded, how could I have come to know Mr. Withrow - an interesting guy who is so far from the worst it's insane. The bliss is still somewhere I guess.